Something of the old charm, the old appeal, the old recognition, with no mean envy, of a golden nature moving in harmonious circumstance, stirred in Lewis Rand's breast.

He sighed and lay still, his eyes upon the pansies on the table beside his bed.

The moon clock ticked; the sunshine entered softly through the veil of poplar leaves; upon the bough that brushed the window, a cicada shrilled of the approaching summer.

Rand put out his uninjured arm and took a pansy from the bowl.

The little face, brave and friendly, looked at him from the white counterpane where he laid it.